Their Majesties

Just now I found myself on a mythic version of Yonge Street, reverently approaching a great carriage the size of railway car that was slowing making its way down the street. Pulling aside brocade curtains I leaned in, resting my elbows on a small ledge with a strip of friction tape on it, evidently meant just for the purpose.

The interior of the carriage resembled an opulent library, or a fancy parlour room of old. Inside sat three great ladies in all their finery: directly ahead of me, in a throne, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second; just behind her, on a more elaborate throne, a taciturn Queen Victoria. At my left elbow, just next to the window, but hidden from public view behind the curtain I'd pulled aside, was Princess Diana. She was sitting in something like a first-class coach seat. She seemed spooked, and not entirely there, although she glanced over as Elizabeth turned to address me.

Her Majesty seemed to want to make small talk: she greeted me and asked me how I was. As she did so, Victoria stepped quietly forward and placed a small, flat, gold ring - which I took to be an earring - on the ledge in front of me. I looked down and saw two other pieces of jewelry there, evidently gifts from the other ladies.

Victoria had recomposed herself in her seat and Diana was looking out the window, holding the curtain aside with one hand, the bright sun of the afternoon falling on her arm and shoulder. I cocked my head and looked querulously at Elizabeth; she asked if I was pleased with my boons.

"Your Royal Highness, thank you," I said, "but I asked for no boons. Perhaps I might accept only the small gold ring?" And I held up the little ring, along with the other items I'd been offered, both the size and style of clip-on costume earring of my grandmother's day. One was like a little lantern of mother-of-pearl, surrounded by a gleaming gold cage. Highly stylized initials showed this to be the gift of the Princess. The last of the three gifts was the size and shape of a white mulberry, clearly made all of little pearls.

Elizabeth, as if sensing some discomfort on my part, stepped forward, smiled, and swapped the mulberry for a smaller, lovelier version, like a wee forest bramble-berry of tiny, dark garnets. As she returned to her throne, she looked forward through the window.

I followed her gaze through a web of streetcar cables over a busy intersection, to where the sunlight fell on Union Station, a few blocks ahead of us. "Oh," said Her Majesty, "Are we only at Queen?"

I was about to congratulate her on her knowledge of Toronto, but the carriage jolted forward and she staggered back a step in the direction of the other two ladies. She smiled wryly as she grabbed for the arm of her throne, and as she found her footing I distinctly heard Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth the Second mutter the word "Shit!"

Then the carriage pulled away, and I stood alone on Yonge Street, looking southwest at the autumn sunlight falling on the high walls of Union Station. I heard the cheery rolling notes of The Beatles' tune "Her Majesty," playing in my head like a refrain. And I thought, to myself, I have got to write this up in my blog...

At which I promptly woke up, and did.